


Ringing in the Season

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assertive John, Christmas Party, Engagement, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Parental Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tickle Fights, Tired Sherlock, goldfish, john being silly, soft sherlock, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an exhausting case, Sherlock has to come home to face his most daunting menace yet--a Christmas party. And what John does just adds the icing to the marzipan...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ringing in the Season

The flat’s living room was suffused with a soft glow, cast by both the many multicolored light strands draped around the room and the fiercely-crackling fire in the fireplace. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around in the kitchen, doing last-minute prep on the snacks that John had dragged home from Tesco’s. A light, wet snow had been falling all day, chilling him to the bone, so Mrs. Hudson had shooed him off to warm up in the shower while she prepared the edibles. No matter how many times she had reminded “her boys” that she wasn’t their housekeeper, she still doted on them both, often bringing them prepared food, doing light housecleaning, and helping out wherever she could when they were on a case or ill.

 

John was trying to finish hanging up the garlands and decorations around the front room and kitchen before the first guests arrived. He had hoped that Sherlock would be back by now but that was not to be; Sherlock had had to go down to NSY to finish up some paperwork on their latest case. Pity, that—John could have used his height in some places so that John wouldn’t have to stand on a wobbly old chair to finish his festive design work.

 

“There,” he declared with a satisfied nod before turning to Mrs. Hudson, “How does that look?”

 

“Oh, it looks lovely, dear,” she responded, not even looking up from the open oven where the hors d’oeuvres were busily browning. When John canted his head to one side and opened his mouth, she continued, “I saw what you were doing while you were up there.” She looked sideways at him and gave a little wink. “I trust your judgment in these matters; more than Sherlock’s, to be honest,” she finished, in a mock-conspiratorial manner.

 

John smiled a lopsided smile, shook his head, and chuckled. Neither one of them would _ever_ trust Sherlock with decorating the flat unsupervised. The tree would be festooned with crime tape and test tubes, with Billy the Skull overseeing the party from its highest bough, holding a poinsettia “flower” clenched in its teeth …

 

Looking at his watch, he commented, “Where the hell _is_ Sherlock? He said it wouldn’t take long…”

 

“Oh, you know our Sherlock, always having a go at something at the most difficult times. He probably got distracted and lost track of time, like he always does.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m sure he’ll show up shortly. Now, help me, dear, I need to get these things on a plate and the wine opened, and you _know_ how my hands are in this weather.”

 

Just at that moment, they heard the inner door open and close downstairs and the trudge of tired feet on the staircase. John moved silently to the open kitchen door and looked down the stairwell just as Mrs. Hudson asked, “Is that him now?”

 

John grinned as he, at first, saw a familiar head of tousled dark brown curls and, then, a tall, slender figure in a long, snow-dusted coat, trudge up the stairs. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, it is,” he called back. The figure looked up and grinned back, with a trace of both fatigue and relief.

 

They met at the top of the mid-staircase landing and embraced, sharing a quick kiss before breaking apart reluctantly and moving into the living room, John leading his lover by the hand.

 

“Ah, thank God I got back before the snow _really_ began to fall,” Sherlock sighed as he unwound his scarf, shrugged off his greatcoat, and hung them both on the rack behind the door. He shuffled over to the couch and sank down onto it gratefully as John brought him a mug of hot tea—with a little “fortifier” in it to warm and revive him.

 

Mrs. Hudson flitted out of the kitchen with plates of food, placing them at intervals around the room. “Oh, dear, do you think the snow will keep everyone from coming?” she fretted.

 

Sherlock smirked behind his mug of tea while John settled himself on the arm of the couch next to him. “Well, I can guarantee that _Mycroft_ won’t make it. It’s bad enough when he has to go out in _any_ sort of inclement weather, but he’d also have to socialize with _goldfish_ all night,” he snarked.

 

John stifled a laugh. Sherlock had once told him about Mycroft’s opinion of “ordinary people” and, since then, whenever Mycroft comes over for a visit and sits in John’s chair, John walks into the kitchen behind him and starts making fish faces while flapping his hands like fins. It usually takes all Sherlock’s considerable self-control to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter, much to Mycroft’s annoyance.

 

“Be nice now, Sherlock. He _is_ your brother, you know,” Mrs. Hudson chided.

 

“Yes, the same one who told you to shut up in this very room,” he growled in return.

 

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock the fish eye. “As you did, too, as I recall, dear.”

 

Sherlock made a show of looking around the room while feigning innocence. “Well, I _was_ much more polite about it,” he pointed out before turning to John and wrapping a possessive arm around his waist. “Is this your doing, John?” he inquired, indicating the holiday décor with his still-steaming mug.

 

John nodded, waiting for the inevitable sarcastic observation, but Sherlock surprised him by saying, “Very nice _and_ tastefully restrained. How were you able to get the decorations up so high?” It was blandly asked, no telltale sign of his signature caustic humor apparent. “Chair or ladder?”

 

“A rickety old chair, as a matter of fact,” John stated, looking around at the colorful holiday touches he had bestowed upon the flat. Then he looked down at his flatmate with one critical eyebrow raised. “Could have used your help, though. I really hate risking life and limb because someone I depended upon, _who is taller than I am_ , didn’t see fit to get his arse home in time to help.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed wearily. His fingertips had pushed John’s jumper aside at the waistband and stolen underneath, tracing light circles on the bare skin beneath. “I know. I’m sorry, John. I tried to get away but Lestrade…” He sighed again, leaning forward to place his untouched mug on a folded napkin Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully positioned before him on the coffee table. He then wrapped both arms around John’s waist and rested his head against the conveniently-placed hip for comfort. John wove his fingers through Sherlock’s thick hair and inquired, softly, “Was it that bad, love?”

 

At first, Sherlock said nothing, but John knew enough to give him time to gather himself. This last case had involved a serial murderer who had caused the untimely death of an entire family, all for an inheritance he wasn’t even entitled to. He was an illegitimate offspring of the deceased and had figured that, if he eliminated the whole remaining family at once, he would be the only heir left. Since _only he_ knew of the illicit relationship, it had taken some effort on the detective’s part to put all the pieces together.

 

Ever since Sherlock and John had finally professed their feelings for one another, they had both been undergoing subtle changes, not only in their relationship, but in their very core personalities. Sherlock had become softer and more empathetic—not only with John, but with others he had learned to trust, such as Lestrade and Molly—while John’s sharp-edged anger and reluctance to talk about his feelings had taken a very palpable hit under Sherlock’s gentling influence. It was this very transformation, in fact, that accounted for Sherlock’s current mental state. He had been unusually affected by the crime because of the incredibly brutal slaying of a young couple and their three pre-school children. Since the detective had never really valued wealth, he couldn’t, in his own mind, balance the greed of the murderer against the lives of so many innocents. Such a complex case would have taken a lot of time and emotional energy to explain and document at NSY. Considering how Sherlock never ate or drank during a case, he was undoubtedly at the end of his endurance.

 

Finally, he turned his silver gaze upwards, catching John’s eyes, and smiled warmly, fatigue etched deep around his eyes. John, in turn, stroked his lover’s cheek and ruffled his curls affectionately, gestures they both took great pleasure in. Sherlock hugged John contentedly, nuzzling his face into John’s newly-laundered holiday sweater and the slightly-plump waist beneath.

 

“Thank heaven I have you to come home to, Jawn,” Sherlock tended to slur John’s name when he was tired or sleepy. John always found it endearing. “I’m not sure I would have made it through this case without you.”

 

A plate of hors d’oeuvres appeared in front of Sherlock’s face, held there by a smiling Mrs. Hudson. “Now, Sherlock, dear, you must eat something. Your company will be here any moment now and we can’t have you stretched out on the floor in exhaustion, can we?” She set the dish down before she _also_ ruffled his hair and walked away. He had become much more tolerant of such affectionate gestures since he and John had become a couple. John just chuckled.

 

A pained groan escaped Sherlock’s lips.

 

“You forgot about the party, didn’t you?” John chastised him with a light-hearted thump on the head.

 

Sherlock reluctantly disengaged from John and began wolfing down the tidbits on the plate. “Tried to,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Didn’t succeed.”

 

John reached over and offered him the forgotten mug of tea to wash it all down. Sherlock gratefully accepted. He took a sip, raised and eyebrow, and asked, “Jamison’s?”

 

“Yep,” John affirmed as he leaned over to kiss his boyfriend’s head. “Figured you could use it.” He then rose from the couch arm and purposefully strode into the kitchen to help Mrs. Hudson.

 

Sherlock could hear the clatter of baking sheets and dishes, wine glasses being removed from the cabinet, and the staccato *pop* of a champagne bottle, probably by John, since Mrs. Hudson’s arthritis kept her from performing such tasks. He heard Mrs. Hudson call out, “Sherlock, is the front door unlocked? We don’t want to keep people waiting outside in this weather!”

 

Eyes rolling toward the heavens, Sherlock levered himself out of the couch and called back, “I’ll check. I didn’t really take any notice when I came in.” He was so done in at that point that Moriarty could have popped in, back from the dead, and he would have dismissed him with a wave of his hand and a “Whatever,” and walked right past him.

 

Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock heard the doorbell ring _and_ the front door open simultaneously. A very feminine voice said, “See, Greg? I told you it would be open! You didn’t have to go and ring the bell—oh, Sherlock! How wonderful to see you!” And with that, Molly Hooper bounced through the inner door, all smiles and snow-covered brown hair, to wrap her arms around her much-taller friend. He gave her a tentative kiss on the cheek and smiled half-heartedly. Ever since she had (finally) come to grips with the fact that he was gay and, much later, had started going out with someone else, they’d been the best of friends. She’d even slip him a few extra body parts for his experiments sometimes.

 

Behind her trundled in Greg Lestrade, carrying a couple of large, brightly-colored bags full of gaily-wrapped gifts for the party. He grinned at Sherlock, still in the midst of a very enthusiastic hug from Molly. “Hey, Sherlock, you look like hell!” he cheerfully observed. Sherlock smiled a smile that was as far from being amused as _he_ was from the comfort of his own bed. As Molly released Sherlock, Greg handed a bag to Molly and slapped him on the shoulder heartily, nearly knocking him off his feet, saying, “That was one hell of a case, wasn’t it? But we got it solved in time for the party, right? Even got all the paperwork done!”

 

 _We_ , he had said. _We_ had solved it. _What fucking bullshit_ , Sherlock thought uncharitably as he plodded up the stairs after Greg and Molly, who were chattering back and forth excitedly like a pair of chimps. _Just stick a fork in me—I’m done._

 

Before he could reach the landing, however, the front door opened again--this time to admit Bill Wiggins, Mike Stamford, and a few people John knew from the clinic. They were followed by, surprisingly, John’s sister Harry and her wife, Clara, who had remarried after Sherlock had solved a case for them. Sherlock’s polite smile never quite reached his eyes as he beckoned everyone to come up to the flat. He continued laboriously climbing the stairs until he reached the two open doors, where he was greeted by a blast of laughter and animated conversation that made his hair hurt. He took a sharp left into the kitchen and, seeing that no one had noticed him yet, veered into the back hall and slithered into his bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned against it, rolling his eyes heavenward _. Safe at last_.

 

Once he had made sure that the bathroom door to the hall was open and his en suite door was locked, he threw off his jacket and allowed himself to fall face-first onto the military-neat bed that was seductively calling his name. He let out a grateful sigh and closed his eyes…

 

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope…” John bounded into the room, closed the door behind him, and dropped onto the bed at Sherlock’s side. “You are not getting out of this one. I put out all your clothes for the party and you are going to go in there and be civilized…”

 

“Bastard,” Sherlock spat, his voice muffled by the mattress. He ignored his lover as John attempted to roll him onto his back to undo his shirt and trousers. Sherlock was dead weight and stubbornly refused to be moved or to help in any way.

 

John sighed in frustration and sat down to gather his thoughts. He knew how obstinate Sherlock could be when it came to things like parties and social events, which he hated with a white-hot passion. “I hate to do this to you, love, I really do, but you leave me no alternative,” he said, his voice heavily-laden with both false sympathy and an implied threat.

 

Sudden terror made Sherlock’s eyes snap open. He swiveled his head to give John a warning look just as John leaned forward, looming over his fallen partner, his fingers extended and wiggling. Just as the whispered words, “Don’t you dare,” left his lips, John dug his short, powerful digits into Sherlock’s sides and started tickling him mercilessly.

 

Now, Sherlock normally was not given to great shows of emotion or physical discomfort—except with John, of course—but the one thing he _could not tolerate_ was being tickled, and John knew it. Sherlock hissed and giggled and kicked and threatened John as best he could while squirming and trying to fend off the smaller man’s manipulations and his superior position in the battle. Finally he gasped, “Enough! Enough, John, I concede!” and rolled over on his back, allowing John to fasten his shirt and cuffs, then his belt and trousers. Sherlock gave John a disgruntled look and added, “But I don’t have to cooperate!” and proceeded to sulk.

 

Smiling an evil smile he reserved _specifically_ for when he had to deal with his obstreperous boyfriend, John leaned in again and, chuckling maliciously, wiggled his fingers at him. “Sit up, or I _will_ do it again,” he promised, his voice dripping with jovial menace, “and this time, I won’t stop until everyone outside _knows_ what a _big baby_ you can be!” _*wiggle wiggle*_

 

Sherlock’s normally full lips flatlined in frustration. He could endure torture, he could endure threats, he could endure hateful names, he could even endure having his career tarnished, but this… _this_ was too much for him. He grudgingly sat at the edge of the bed and allowed John to remove his shirt and trousers.

 

“Shite,” he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, “John, why are you doing this to me? It isn’t like most of the people out there would even _miss_ me if I just stayed in here and went to sleep…”

 

“I’ve already had three…no, four…people ask me if you’re OK and if you’re coming back out, and I told them you are, so you’re going to come out and socialize _if I have to put my foot up your ass to make you do it_!” John growled as he slid a top over Sherlock’s passive-aggressively upraised arms. It was a tribute to John’s diversionary tactics and Sherlock’s fatigue that Sherlock didn’t immediately notice that it was…a jumper. Worse than that, a _holiday_ jumper. It wasn’t until John had pulled it over his head, mussing further his already-disheveled hair, that Sherlock identified what it was and loudly protested, “Is this one of _your_ jumpers? It won’t fit me and you _know_ I don’t wear jumpers! That’s _your_ department! Get me one of _my_ shirts…”

 

“ _Shut up, you berk_!” John hissed at him. Sherlock looked like he’d been scolded, and then he pouted—most becomingly, in John’s opinion, but he’d deal with that later. Right now, he had to get his recalcitrant partner back to the party. “This is _not_ one of mine; I bought it for _you_! You’re going to wear it because you’re always complaining that you’re cold. Beside that, tonight you walked all the way back here in the snow and I don’t want to have to take care of “Poor Little Sick Sherlock” again. _Am I clear_?” John thrust his face into Sherlock’s and glowered at him.

 

That seemed to calm Sherlock down. His shoulders sagged in defeat as he looked down and pulled the front of the jumper out to look at it. John eyed him warily. Sherlock did _not_ give up easily and he knew from experience to look for new pockets of resistance.

 

“Well, it _is_ a very nice jumper,” Sherlock reluctantly admitted. “And very warm, as well. I suppose I _could_ wear it tonight.” He looked up from under his brows at John, standing in front of him with his arms crossed, his legs firmly planted, and what Sherlock called his “Captain Watson” face on display. “As long as nobody laughs,” he warned.

 

John smirked. That was the final concession. _Nobody laugh at me_. “They won’t, love. Those are our friends out there, not the people at uni or those new twats at NSY. These people _care_ about you.” He turned back to the wardrobe and pulled out a new pair of jeans. Sherlock eyed them suspiciously. “Come on, put them on, Sherlock. I bought these for you, too. Part of your Christmas presents.”

 

Sherlock silently slid the jeans over his lean, well-muscled legs-- toned by years of running after criminals and assorted madmen-- then over his high, tight bum. He fastened the front, applied the belt and paused to evaluate his appearance in the wardrobe mirror. The jumper wasn’t that noxious, thank heavens—it was just a pattern, not a happy snowman or a frolicking reindeer, and it _was_ a becoming color—and the jeans fit fabulously well. He smiled in approval. As he turned away, he saw a blur of color and, suddenly, he had an armful of John—his hands around Sherlock’s neck and buried in his hair, his lips enthusiastically seeking out and joining with his lover’s. Sherlock slid his arms around John’s ribs and the two of them just stood there, entwined with each other, _immersed_ in each other, for several minutes before coming up for air, neither one fully letting go of the other.

 

John beamed up at Sherlock affectionately. “My God, you are gorgeous,” he breathed into his lover’s ear, “ _And_ you are one stubborn git. Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through all your aggravation.” He kissed Sherlock on the nose, a kiss returned by his lover on the forehead.

 

“Sometimes I wonder, too, Jawn,” he said, still slurring his words a bit in fatigue. His quicksilver eyes gazed softly down into intense blue-gray ones. “I don’t deserve you, I know that. I am a thoroughly unpleasant person, immature, volatile…” John placed a finger on his lips to silence him. Sherlock kissed it. “All I mean to say is that I know how lucky I am to have you in my life, Jawn. You make me want to be a better…” he struggled to find the right word, then shrugged, “ _me_. Because it would make _you_ happy.”

 

Such declarations from Sherlock were rare, indeed. _He must be exhausted; all his defenses are down. That’s the main reason he doesn’t want to go out there. He has no barriers left,_ John thought. He squeezed Sherlock gently and said, “Let’s go out there and have a good time, love. If you’re that tired, you don’t have to stay long, OK?” Sherlock smiled gently and nodded, eyelids already at half-mast.

 

A burst of excited conversation filtered through the door, followed by a tentative knock.

 

“Yoohoo, boys!” Mrs. Hudson called out. “All the guests are here and they’re asking after you!”

 

“In a minute, Mrs. Hudson! I’m just making sure Sherlock is presentable!” John called back. He tilted his head back to gaze up at Sherlock fondly. “Ready, love?”

 

“I suppose so,” Sherlock murmured as John briefly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair to restore it to some semblance of order, “although most of them are here to see you, not me.”

 

John allowed a wave of annoyance to wash over him. “Stop it, Sherlock. You _do_ have friends— _we_ have friends. You’re not the lone wolf you once were.” He took Sherlock by the hand, kissed it, and led him to the door, opening it with the other hand. Together they exited the bedroom. John could feel Sherlock tense up and pull back slightly.

 

A tall figure with thinning brown hair and an impeccable suit stood by the kitchen door surveying the assembled group with poorly-disguised disdain while tapping his umbrella on the floor. He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him.

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock said, more than a little surprised at the sight of his elder brother standing nonchalantly in his flat. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you down at the Diogenese Club, shushing members for breathing too loud?”

 

Mycroft smiled humorlessly while his restless eyes, which missed nothing, scampered over Sherlock’s face and form. “My dear brother, you look positively…” He paused to choose the precise descriptive, but a warning look from John shut him down. “… _festive_.” He fingered the jumper his brother was wearing with distaste and commented, dryly, “I see that your partner has been buying your clothes for you. How public spirited of him.”

 

John smiled, mirthlessly. “Mycroft, I’ll public-spirit your ass out of here if you don’t behave.”

 

Mycroft’s charmless smile broadened. “That, I would like to see, Doctor Watson.” He waved his hand carelessly. “But this is not the time or the place, do you think? After all, it _is_ Christmas.” With that thought in mind, Mycroft glided away, leaving John and Sherlock looking at each other in puzzlement.

 

“Why is _he_ here?” Sherlock wondered aloud. “I mean, we always invite him, but he _never_ shows up!” He turned to John for clarification, brows knitted and nose wrinkled in consternation.

 

John just shrugged wordlessly.

 

The party continued on, with everyone having a good time talking and partaking of refreshments. Sherlock tried--John would give him that-- Sherlock _tried_ to be sociable, but he was by and large out on his feet. Molly gushed about how great his new ensemble looked and he smiled awkwardly, not quite knowing what to say in response. Only John knew how difficult it was for Sherlock to accept compliments or to engage in small talk. The only person who looked even more uncomfortable was Mycroft. He was sitting in Sherlock’s chair with a bored expression on his face, barely pretending to listen to Mrs. Hudson as she prattled on about this and that, a glass of (what John was _sure_ he considered to be a mediocre) red wine in his hand.

 

At the height of the party, when everyone seemed pretty well fed and had drinks in their hands, John moved to the center of the living room and announced that it was time to exchange gifts. A current of excitement ran through the crowd as everyone trotted out their bags full of goodies. All comfy seats having been taken, Sherlock leaned next to John’s chair, a glass of champagne in hand. Molly and Greg were behind him, sitting in a couple of dining room chairs, whispering conspiratorially. Mycroft, wanting nothing to do with this ritual, had moved to stand behind Sherlock, so Mike took over Sherlock’s chair. Harry and Clara were comfortably ensconced on the couch, holding hands like newlyweds.

 

John, using a metal spoon, struck his champagne glass three times, eliciting ringing tones. “We’d like to thank everyone for coming out on this, frankly, dreadful night to celebrate the holidays with us!” He raised his glass and everyone else followed suit. “To all our friends and family!”

 

“To all our friends and family!” everyone repeated as they raised their glasses high, then sipped their champagne.

 

“But before we start exchanging gifts,” John announced, “I’d like to take a moment to say something that’s been needing saying for quite some time.” He turned around, grinning, to face Sherlock, who gazed back at him uncomprehendingly, nose becomingly rumpled. There were whisperings amongst the crowd which quickly dissipated as everyone paid rapt attention to the scene currently taking place. John stepped up to Sherlock and said, “Sherlock, as you know I’m absolute rubbish at this sort of thing,” he said as he held his half-filled glass on high and looked around at his guests, “although this makes it a lot easier!” A wave of faint laughter went through the room and almost immediately quieted down again.

 

John set his glass on the table beside him and stood, as was his wont, at parade rest, an odd smile on his face. His chair had been taken over by Mrs. Hudson, who seemed to be nervously playing with her wine glass. Sherlock noticed her odd demeanor but, between the champagne and the fatigue, he was feeling strangely disconnected, almost as mentally impaired as he was on that disastrous Stag Night so many years ago. Nothing made sense to him in this condition.

 

“Sherlock,” John began, after clearing his throat uneasily, “you and I have been through hell, together and separately, over the past several years.” Sherlock nodded in solemn agreement. “I lost you once, or so I thought, married a poor substitute, and nearly lost you again. Finally— _finally_ —we both got on the same page and, now, I think we’re in a pretty good place.” Sherlock smiled warmly down at him. John dropped his head and shifted his feet, licking his lips awkwardly, before he looked up and continued, “If I hadn’t been so damned _oblivious_ , if I had been honest with myself, I would have realized that I fell in love with you that first day, in the lab, when you asked ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’” He half-turned to point an accusatory finger at Stamford, who sat beaming in Sherlock’s chair. “It’s all this man’s fault for introducing us! Love at first deduction!” Everyone laughed loudly, except for Mycroft, who was watching Sherlock closely. He made a sign to Greg, indicating his younger brother. Greg slid to the front of his chair, suddenly alert.

 

John turned back to Sherlock and said, “Sherlock, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, mad genius that you are.” Sherlock frowned in confusion as he struggled to understand what John was saying, the champagne singing in his blood. John extended a hand toward Mrs. Hudson, who gleefully dug into the seat cushion of her chair. She came out with a burgundy velvet box, which she placed in his hand with a wink. Holding the box delicately, almost lovingly, he knelt on one knee, opened the box and said, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes—and that’s the lot of it—will you marry me?”

 

Time stopped for Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on the small hinged box resting in John’s hands. Inside were two gold rings, identical except for size, gleaming and glinting in the flashing Christmas lights overhead. His eyes blinked in staccato fashion as he stood, dumbfounded, his mind racing, ‘round and ‘round, faster and faster. His thoughts seemed to be chasing their own tails, spiraling down to a pinpoint of light…

 

“Whoa, somebody catch him! He’s going down!” somebody yelled as his knees gave out. Mycroft and Greg each grabbed Sherlock by an arm and gently lowered him to the floor. John had caught the champagne glass just as it dropped from Sherlock’s nerveless hand. Sherlock just sat there, legs akimbo, eyes wide and blinking fitfully as his mind attempted to process this new, unexpected data.

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you okay?” Greg asked, shaking his shoulder gently.

 

“Shit, I think I broke him!” John nervously joked. A few people laughed in sympathy. He leaned in and raised Sherlock’s chin so that he could examine his eyes, snapping the box shut with his other hand and handing it back to Mrs. Hudson.

 

Molly appeared with a glass of water and, with John’s help, got Sherlock to drink some of it. Little by little, his brain came back online. He looked around, uncomprehending, at the ring of concerned faces surrounding him. John gently rubbed his cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Maybe I should have waited until you were in better shape, but I think we’ve waited long enough, yeah?” he asked, softly.

 

“Waited for what?” Sherlock retorted. “John, you’re not making sense.” His obvious cluelessness was priceless to those who had had to deal with this most difficult of men for so many years. Greg was taking video on his phone. There were smiles all around as Harry asked the obvious question, “Well, Sherlock, will you or won’t you?”

 

Now Sherlock was genuinely irritated. There was a situation going on that he wasn’t privy to, and he _hated_ that. “Will I or won’t I what?” he snapped.

 

Harry leaned forward from her position on the couch and said, exasperatedly, “Would you _please_ put my brother out of his—and my—misery and just say ‘Yes’?” When Sherlock still looked nonplussed, she added, “ _He just asked you to marry him, you great twit!”_

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock, and the words couldn’t seem to come out of his mouth fast enough.

“YES! YES, John! Absolutely! YES!”

 

A big, cheesy grin spread across John’s face as he and Sherlock both surged forward to their knees. Sherlock’s hands cupped John’s face while John grabbed fistfuls of curly brown hair, the end result being a kiss that steamed up the windows. A cheer resounded through the room and, for once, Mrs. Hudson said, “To hell with the neighbors! This is worth a noise complaint! Mrs. Turner can kiss my apron!”

 

The two idiots couldn’t wipe the smiles off their faces for the rest of the party as they received congratulations from all in attendance. Mycroft stood back in the kitchen until everyone was busy unwrapping packages. He covertly mentioned to John that he was about to leave but that he wanted to speak to Sherlock alone.

 

In the hallway to the bedroom, away from the gifting activities and happy conversation, Sherlock and Mycroft stood an uncomfortable arms-length apart. Mycroft cleared his throat and tapped his umbrella ferrule on the wooden floor before speaking. “Well, little brother, it seems that happy endings do sometimes occur,” he said, glibly. “My heartfelt congratulations.”

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock began, but the fatigue, the champagne, and the joy of the occasion overcame his usual self-control. He threw his arms around a very startled Mycroft and hugged him, hard. When he withdrew, Mycroft looked as though he thought his baby brother had slipped a cog.

 

“Brother mine, get yourself a goldfish,” Sherlock grinned unabashedly. “It’s worth it.”

 

 


End file.
